


Only in My Dreams

by FinalSolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinalSolution/pseuds/FinalSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been close to two years since The Incident, and the holidays are always a difficult time, but this year Mrs. Hudson is persistent that John tries to make the best of it with his friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only in My Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written back in January (posted as "A Mircale at 221B") as a belated Christmas gift for [Merc](http://hiddlesbatchlove.tumblr.com/), I liked it so much I kept it around and revised it a bit. She was insistent on another chapter, though if it comes remains to be seen, since I seem only capable of writing one-shots.

It was Christmas Eve, and the flat smelled unusually of cinnamon spice and wintergreen. Mrs. Hudson had done her best to make the place a bit less dreary for the holidays, and John supposed she had succeeded. There was a small tree next to the window, decked with colored lights and scattered with ornaments, though it looked a bit sickly, which was ultimately John’s fault; he hadn’t done much good at making sure the thing was watered. It was a miracle if he remembered to feed and water himself, let alone an obtrusive plant sitting in his perfectly good viewing space. A snow-white wreath colored by a firey red poinsettia in the center had been hung on the door, shimmering gold garland on the mantle, and even stockings; one for John, of course, and then Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade…

John gave a small sigh and lingered on the mantle for a moment, spying the macabre, very out-of-place skull perched in its normal place on the left of the mantle. Something odd tugged at the corner of his mind, something he should have remembered about that old thing, but he couldn’t quite think of what.

Of course, had it been fully up to him, John Watson would have just as well preferred to spend the evening alone, but his landlady, ever the motherly type that she was, had insisted on some sort of holiday get-together. “It would do you good, dear,” she had assured him. He begged to differ. He had spent that first Christmas alone, after the incident. It hadn’t been a good time for him, for certain. Ashamed as he was to admit it – which is precisely why he wouldn’t – he had spent a good part of the day perched on the chair closest to the window, sometimes looking out onto Baker Street below, sometimes looking but not really _seeing_ , and often crying. Silently, for the most part, though he did vaguely recall at some point becoming so overcome by his emotions that his chest began to physically hurt, as though there was something rabid trying to claw its way out of him. He hadn’t been aware of the screaming, only that he suddenly found himself looking up from the balled-up position he’d pulled himself into, and seeing Mrs. Hudson’s face, blanketed in fear and worry…and sadness. She hadn’t left him for a good time after that, likely afraid that he’d do something silly like throw himself out of the window. Or jam the muzzle of Sherlock’s revolver into his mouth and pull the trigger. In truth, he very well may have, by that point.

It hadn’t been a good time, but he would hardly call this much better. In Sherlock’s absence, he had assumed the role of the quiet observer, the Scrooge in the corner who _harrumph_ ed at everyone making merry pleasantries with one another. He took a sip of the wine he held in his hand, the same glass he’d been cradling for the past hour and a half, and listened on as Molly prattled on about a bloke she had recently met at the grocer’s. _Dear god_ , John thought, _it sounds like the start of one of those ridiculously cheesy romantic comedies or something._ But then, he supposed that to be very … well, Molly.

“You’re awfully quiet, John.”

He glanced up to find Lestrade watching him intently, a look on the detective inspector’s face that looked something close to concern.

“You know what we need,” Molly interjected, “is a bit of music. Christmas carols. That would cheer you up, get you in the spirit. John?”

John had risen to his feet before she had even finished speaking, his movements swift and clearly displaying his agitation. “If one of you knows how to play violin, feel free.” The words came out rapid and sharp. “But I’m going to bed. I trust you all know the way out.” His steps were brisk as he moved from the sitting area and made his way upstairs to his bedroom. He didn’t have to look back at his company to know the looks that were plastered onto their faces; he could feel the wide-eyed stares and awe-slacked jaws burning like cinders into his back. He couldn’t honestly say he felt the slightest bit guilty.

——

It had happened again. He slept restlessly, and woke in the middle of the night, in a full-on cold sweat, gasping for air. John lay sprawled on his back, one arm across his middle and the other splayed over his head, trying to slow both his breath and his heart. It used to be nightmares about Afghanistan. Now they were nightmares about his flatmate.

No, his friend.

No, still not the right word. His…

Often it was the same dream, his subconscious reliving that mind-numbing moment over and over again. Sherlock tossing his phone to the side; Sherlock falling from the roof – sometimes it seemed to be happening in slow motion, which either made it better or worse, John wasn’t exactly sure. Sometimes in the dreams, John could see Moriarty actually _shove_ the detective from the edge. He’d tried to make himself believe it was the truth, at first, for a little while. The possibility of murder somehow seemed easier to stomach than the cold reality. Sometimes, John would see Moriarty there, in the crowd of gawkers flocked around the broken and bloodied mess that was Sherlock, smiling at him. John would scream, a sound more beast than human, something guttural and full of rage and anguish – and that is when he would wake up.

The other night before, when he had woken, he had sworn he had seen Sherlock’s face, lingering just inches from his own, cloaked in contemplation. It had vanished as quickly as it had come, an imprint left from the dream, his mind playing tricks in the darkness. Tonight, there was no spectral image, but he swore, he _swore_ \- was that the sound of a violin coming from downstairs? For a brief moment, John held his breath and listened, still in a half-sleep state, tried to concentrate. The flat was silent, and he felt like a damned fool. It had been close to two years, and he was still hoping for miracles.

——

When he went downstairs on Christmas morning, John Watson was not sure what he was expecting to see, but he was pretty sure, at least, that it wasn’t what he found. The first thing that he noticed was that someone had tidied the kitchen; not much of a surprise in itself, he thought. It was probable that Mrs. Hudson had taken it upon herself to clean up after he had excused himself for the evening and his guests had left, but what didn’t entirely make sense was the single mug that was left resting on the table; it smelled faintly of tea, and had a light ring around the bottom, clearly unclean. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson hadn’t spotted it, but given how pristine the rest of the kitchen was, John found that to be unlikely. He gave a mental shrug and put it to the back of his mind and went about making a cup of tea for himself.

After he had his tea in hand, he strode to the door and opened it. As expected, the paper had been left out for him. He bent to retrieve it, stood, and closed the door. He made his way to Sherlock’s chair – because it would always be Sherlock’s, regardless – and sat, unfolded his paper and began reading.

And then it happened. Something clicked; a synapse firing in his brain, someone turning on the light switch to brighten a dim room. John narrowed his eyes, yanked the paper down to his lap, away from his face, and looked up at the mantle. He had seen it when he first came into the room that morning, before he even saw the kitchen, but he hadn’t – oh, _of course_. He had seen, but he hadn’t _observed_. Wasn’t that what Sherlock was always telling him? He stared for a long moment at the line of festive stockings that decorated his mantle, and knew without a doubt there had only been four there last night. This morning, there was a fifth.

Written in gold lettering, it spelled: **Sherlock**.

“I suppose all I’ll be finding is coal, then?” The baritone voice came from nowhere. John jumped, startled. He hadn’t heard anyone come in, hadn’t expected –

His head snapped around, to the direction of the door, and his mouth went slack. The paper slipped from his fingers, completely forgotten.

“Sh-Sher – Sherlock? But – but you – how….?” His words failed him. He wanted to stand, but didn’t trust his legs to be able to support him. “Oh, god, I’m dreaming again, aren’t I?” He could feel the color drain from his face as the realization hit, and a cold clammy feeling come over him.

But this couldn’t be a dream. His dreams – or hallucinations, as they sometimes were – always had Sherlock looking the same as John remembered him. But this Sherlock was different. His hair was a bit shorter and, John thought, a bit lighter, and his face looked worn; he looked like a man who had lived a hundred lifetimes and who had far too many horror stories to tell about it. The one part that hadn’t noticeably changed were those piercing, cool eyes that were set into his face. And right now they were very fixed on John Watson, and showing him a mirror of emotion that Sherlock’s face was otherwise devoid of; anxiousness, uncertainty, caution, and something else.

Then John remembered. The skull he had noticed last night, during the party. He had _put it away_. How had he forgotten that? He had taken it and placed it in a cupboard, giving himself the excuse that it wouldn’t look proper with the Christmas decorations, but really, he just hadn’t wanted any reminders for the next few days. Then that night, he had woken to find what he thought was a mirage of Sherlock in his room… and the next day, the skull had been there. Right there, in plain sight, right under his nose.

“Well,” Sherlock spoke, bringing John back to the present. “I believe it’s Christmas, yes? Merry Christmas, John.”

“You….” John’s bewilderment was now quickly shifting into anger. “You were alive? This whole time? Why? Why bother coming back now, why bother at all?” With each sentence, his voice grew louder, and it was as though his rage had a hold of him like a marionette, giving his body life and movement again; his eyes grew dark, accusing, his jaw and fists simultaneously tightened, and he rose ever so slowly from his chair.

“I thought it was time to come home, obviously.”

Sherlock smiled then, as though it were such a simple answer. Not one of the smiles he used when he was being condescending, or trying to play at being a charming bystander. John rarely saw this smile, the one that made the detective look absolutely and strangely human, but he knew Sherlock only ever used it with him.

Love. That was what John couldn’t pinpoint a few minutes ago, watching Sherlock’s face. He felt anxiousness, uncertainty, for how John would receive him, surely. But then there was love.

For the second Christmas in a row after the incident, John was beside himself, with a swelling feeling in his chest as though it were about to burst, and tears stinging his eyes.


End file.
